


All Souls' Day

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Catholicism, Character Death, F/M, Grief, Mourning, Post-Canon, Religosity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 18:07:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8456503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: With her rosary beads and candles, Christine remembers some of those who have been lost.





	

**Author's Note:**

> In honour of the fact that today is/was All Souls' Day (as well as being part of a host of other Festivals of the Dead across the world) and with the Catholic imagery that goes with various adaptations of PotO I felt it appropriate to write this fic.

_The first glorious mystery…_

Her lips form the words though she does not speak them, the black jet bead cold between her fingers. They echo through her brain, drift through the endless years.

_Hail Mary, full of grace,_

_The Lord is with thee,_

_Blessed art thou amongst women,_

_And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus…_

_The lilting sweet voice blends with the whine of the violin so that it is less whine and more floating breeze, lifting that voice so that it soars, high above the firelight flickering at the edges of her vision._

_Papa is pale, his eyes red-rimmed and lips trembling as he grasps her hands tight in his. “Your mother is very ill, älskling,” he murmurs, squeezes her hands. “The angels will protect her.”_

_That face, that pale, beautiful face, is so still and so pretty, but her Mama won’t open her eyes even though she calls her, and_ why won’t Mama open her eyes _?_

Christine’s eyes snap open and she gasps, the memory dissipating in the wisps of candle smoke. It has been so long, so many years, since she thought of her mother for more than a fleeting moment, and now her ghost is here, woven through every thought.  She has not come here to pray a Rosary for her, not tonight, though she has prayed so very much for her with her father and since, and now her eyes sting and all she can do is wipe the tears away, fingers trembling.

Her mother was blonde, too. And beautiful. Or, might have been if things had not been so difficult.

No. _No_. She must not, _cannot_ think of her tonight. It is too long ago, the wound long-since a scar and she said her prayers for that soul this morning, as she woke, as is her tradition. She takes a second candle, lights it from the first, and sets it down beside it. The smokes mingles, drifts before her. A candle for the first mystery, a candle for the second.

She sighs, swallows the lump in her throat, counts her fingers past that decade onto the next, each bead skipped a pang in her chest. She’ll come back to the mystery at the end, when she composes herself, and focuses.

* * *

 

 _The second glorious mystery_ …

Her eyes slip closed, back into the rhythm of the prayer, ingrained in her since she was very small.

_Hail Mary, full of grace,_

_The Lord is with thee_

_Blessed art thou amongst women…_

_The Professor has been tired as long as they’ve been with he and Mamma Valerius. That is nothing new, but there is something different in his eyes, a cast of grey and a sadness in his face when he smiles at her, and there is a check at her heart that she hides, smiling back. It is cruel to upset someone so very old and kind, and he would be upset to know that there is any worry in her mind._

_She smothers the uneasiness, gives him his tea, and his fingers are cold as they brush her hand. “Thank you, child,” he murmurs. “You are always very good to an old man.”_

This time, her eyes prickle as they snap open, and she blinks the tears away. The memory is so much newer than those of her mother, less worn around the edges and her heart twists, throat tight. She prayed two decades for him with Mamma after breakfast, and somehow Mamma seemed to know what day it is, that sadness glistening in her eyes at the thought of her husband of so long ago. Christine sat with her a long time, let her ramble about him as a young man when he was _so handsome, älskling and he used to play for all us girls of course his fingers weren’t stiff back then and his eyes always twinkled at me_ …

She fists her hand, nails biting into her palm as she fights the roiling wave within her heart. It was so long ago, so long, and he was like a distant, kind grandfather for her and there was pain after him, and another night the Rosary will be his, but not tonight. She takes a breath, soothes the pounding in her chest. _Not tonight._

Carefully, she lights the third candle from the second, sets it down. The little flames flicker at her, dance in the breeze of her breath, and she slips her fingers onto the third decade, lets her eyes close once more.

* * *

 

_The third glorious mystery…_

That was the Descent of the Holy Spirit. Pentecost. Her heart twists at the realisation. It was Pentecost when her father died, at once so long ago and so near. The weather was warm, the sky the blue of her own eyes and the breeze off the sea rustling the leaves of the trees in its own melody, a composition he would have been proud of.

_Hail Mary, full of grace,_

_The Lord is with thee…_

_She sits with him a long time, his fingers cold in the palm of her hand, and so still. She has never seen them so still before. Even during his illness they plucked at the bedsheets as if searching for his violin strings, and he had not the strength to play. A thread snagged on one of his nails, and when she took his hand in hers to ease it away his eyes filled with tears and he mumbled something she could not hear before another cough rattled his frail body. And she cannot feel anything, not sadness, not peace, not solace that he need not suffer anymore, only a vast emptiness inside of her chest, and she strokes his fingers, and wishes that they would warm._

_“It’s a beautiful day, Papa,” she murmurs, voice as thin as if she were a little girl again, as far away as if it were someone else’s though it is her lips moving. “Perhaps we could go for a walk. You would like that. There are so many people who would listen to your music. Perhaps the angel is waiting out there. Surely angels like to visit on beautiful da-”_

_A hand, a gentle hand squeezes her shoulder and she stops, her words choked off. “Oh, älskling,” Mamma Valerius breathes, her voice so soft, and a litany of words block Christine’s throat and she cannot speak them, cannot think them, can only look at that dear old face so pale and slack on the pillow and plead with those eyes to open._

The whine that reaches her ears is her own, and she gasps against the twisting pain in her chest, so much worse now as if it will choke her. “Oh, Papa,” she whispers, hunching against the force of it. “Papa.” She cannot help the tears that slip through her eyelashes, trickling down her cheeks. “Papa, I’m sorry, Papa, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll pray yours next, I promise.” She swallows, and blinks her eyes open. The candle flames multiply a thousand fold, each little flame trembling at her, reminding her. She must not be remiss in her duty to him, she _will_ not be. “Soon,” she breathes, swallows, “soon. I just need to do this.” With a tremendous effort she fights the shaking in her fingers, takes a fourth candle and lights it.  Her papa is patient. He can wait, this time. It will not trouble him. There is someone else that she must honour tonight.

* * *

 

_The fourth glorious mystery…_

He would favour it as the _Ave Maria_ , sung for him once more, but she has not the energy in her voice tonight to do him justice.

_Hail Mary, full of grace…_

_The flowers make her nauseous. Roses, lilies, tulips, and more, their scents intermingled so that they are very nearly overpowering and her eyes water. They are still almost-fresh, the petals barely wilted at the edges. He must have anticipated when she would arrive, and another wave of nausea washes over her. In some ways he knows – knew,_ knew _– her too well._

 _She finds him, as he said she would, in his coffin, and her heart twists when she realises that he is not yet dead. He is supposed to be, swore that he would be, and this is_ not how things are meant to be _but she kneels on a footstool beside and takes his hand in hers, his spindly fingers hanging limp between her own. He does not stir at her touch, eyes roving slowly beneath the lids, each breath a faint whisper. For a moment, one long moment that stretches on as she studies the chalky-paleness of his face, the sweat beading on his forehead, she wishes that he_ were _dead, that she did not have to wait with him to fulfil her duty, did not have to wear his ring on her finger a moment longer. Then, in the next moment, the nausea swells again, and she repents. If he were dead, she would merely wish him alive a little longer for to say goodbye._

_Yet, she cannot speak. There are no words to describe the ache in her chest, and what words she does summon dry in her throat. It takes all that she has to re-call the words of Wandrers Nachtlied, the first song that comes to mind though it is neither hymn nor prayer nor lullaby, and she sings it softly for him, her voice as low as if he truly were a child._

_He swallows as the song finishes, fingers trembling in hers as he murmurs, “You are…early.”_

_She bows her head, presses one soft kiss to his forehead, and breathes, “Perhaps that is best.”_

Erik. She swallows, and opens her eyes, the rosary beads hanging limp from her fingers. She wronged him, feared him, could not understand him, and her heart aches but she knows, has learned over these long months, that she could not have loved him as he wished her to, as she loves Raoul. But if things had been different-

No. No. She must not think so. There was nothing that could have been done, and it was not her fault but his and he was aching, too, and it is as it was and she cannot unwish it but she can pray for him and hope that maybe, just maybe, her intercession is enough to grant him peace.

_Please, God, let him rest. Don’t put him through any more, please. He was good beneath it all, might have been great if I—if he had only had the chance. Please spare him. Please._

He was sorry, at the end, she knows and for all he did he suffered enough in life, and she could not love him but in another life she might have done, he might have been different, they might have been good together. She has forgiven what he has done to her, though she cannot forgive what he did to Raoul as easily and she hopes, prays, that someday she will have the strength to do that, too.

_Grant us peace._

_Salve, Regina, Mater misericordiæ,_

_vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve…_

Her fingers slip onto the next bead, and she nods, takes a breath.

_Hail Mary, full of grace,_

_The Lord is with thee…_


End file.
